Call Sign July 2009 - Page 23 - John Edwardes: My life as a taxi driver…

I am 81 now and talking about life more than 60 years ago. It is possible my memory is faulty on some things. If you feel strongly enough that this is the case, feel free write in… The Knowledge in the 50s… I presented myself at the PCO in Lambeth Road to ask if I could do the Knowledge. During the preliminary interview, it was made plain to me that if I obtained my badge I would become a public servant. If I did not like the idea of being a servant, it would be best if I didn’t waste everybody’s time and just forgot the whole idea. Then, whilst waiting my turn to be interviewed, I heard a heated voice from the interview room shouting out: "I’m trying to help you. I’ll ask you again. Do you want to alter these papers you have completed in which you state that you have never been convicted of any crime, because you seem to have forgotten that in 1934 you were found guilty in the Juvenile Court of riding a bicycle without a front light. However, I’ll make an exception for you if you still want to be a cab driver; get out of sight before I change my mind!" I think that perfectly illustrates the difference between police checking application forms who could - and in the case of my colleague did - find out about a conviction and today’s overpaid expert civil servants. We are now forced to fill in Enhanced CRB Disclosures. I assume that John Worboys - who raped and sexually assaulted God knows how many women in his cab – also completed this form, presumably to the entire satisfaction of these same civil	*At the age of 81, DaC driver John Edwardes (H05) had to suddenly retire following a heart problem. Now he has written about his life as a taxi driver. Call Sign is serialising it…* John Edwardes: My life as a taxi driver…
	servants, enabling him to continue his revolting career of assaulting innocent woman. But back to my Knowledge. While waiting in the interview room, I met two other gentlemen also hoping to be accepted. If successful, it was agreed we would meet up at Mark Antonio’s cafe on the corner of Lambeth Road and Pratt Walk. At the cafe, we discussed how we could do the Knowledge together. I wonder how many old timers are now saying: "Blimey I knew that cafe." Well so did everyone else who did the Knowledge at that time. We were all ex-service men and organised ourselves accordingly. We would meet every morning at 7 o’clock at a designated spot and try and do three runs a day. Packing up at about 6 o’clock, we took turns as to whose house we went to for our call-overs and to plan the next day’s three runs. Sometimes I would not get to bed until one or two in the morning and still have to get up in time to meet the others at seven. We worked seven days a week, including bank holidays, Christmas Day and Boxing Day. We did the Knowledge on pushbikes - it was the only way allowed. If you were seen doing it any other way, then you were out. For example, a popular gadget in those days was a small petrol engine that fitted onto the front wheel of bicycles. A couple of Knowledge blokes were seen using these and were promptly sent on their way with their papers torn up. Drivers today have no idea what it was like then. There were no appointments at the end of your visit to the PCO. You were told to return in 30 days, but never given a time or date. When you did arrived outside the Carriage Office, 30 days after your last appointment, it	was at around 4am - that is if you wanted to be seen. Even then you were never first in the queue - there was always someone in front no matter how early you got there. If you arrived much later than that, you were wasting your time, as you would not be seen. At 8am the doors at the top of the steps were opened and the queue would start to move. Behind a small window, a gentleman would enter your name on a list. When his list was full, the rest were turned away. Reaching the window, you were told to turn left down some narrow stairs into the ‘snake pit’. Lit by two bare bulbs, this was a cellar about 20 feet by 16 feet with a couple of benches running along the sides for you to sit on, though I cannot remember ever seeing anybody actually sitting on them. Ventilation was by small slit windows along one wall about seven feet from the floor. Here you would wait until your name was called. I cannot remember how many hopefuls were imprisoned at any one time, but it was always packed. If it had been raining, we’d all be wet. With some smoking and little or no ventilation, it often stank. At last your name was called. You went upstairs, along a short corridor and turned right into another corridor. There were three offices to your left; all had frosted glass windows including the door. You’d knock on the door as instructed and a voice would shout for you to come in. As you entered, there was a piece of board stretching the length of the office on your right. Being fairly high, you could see the officer sitting behind it, but not much else… Next month – John’s horrifying appointment…

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